One More Parade
by CapturetheFinnick
Summary: Dan suffers from post traumatic stress disorder after the war, but it's worse of all on Bonfire night. Phan. Angst. Trigger Warnings; Remembered Death, Guns, Blood, Violence, Distress.


Bonfire night. Worst night of the year. Or week. It seemed to get longer every year. Colours streaking the sky, toffee apples, steaming mulled wine and bangs. Clangs. Booms. Clashes. Crashes. Smashes. Whatever you wanted to call it, it was loud, and it set Dan on edge.

Each noise rattled through Dan, each clamour seemed to enter into his chest, each uproar throwing him right back there. Dusty ground, scattered with rocks, the flapping of the tent, helmet on head, and gun in hand, crawling through on stomachs and gunshots. Always, always, gunshots. That, and fear. The two seemed to intertwine like a spider's web, knotting together, always there whether you like it all not. The fear burning in his chest and the gunshots banging at the door of his ears, begging to be let in. Each gunshot someone dead, someone hurt, someone's life changed forever, crying children, screaming mothers, death. Death lingered, his black cloak flittering in the distance, the mirage that Dan couldn't stop seeing. Ready to take another, beckoning Dan with its finger, wanting to wrap him in his cloak, wanting to carry him in his arms. And Dan had seen death at work, he had seen things, things that no one should ever see. Bravery. He scoffed, more like fucking insanity. Is that what humanity has done? Is that what it has done to itself? Man killing man, killing woman, killing child and for what? Because they are unable to gather compassion? Because of pride? Because natural hate bangs inside every chest? Dan began to shake a little, a dull sickness spreading from his chest, spreading through where the fear used to be. Bang. Clang. Boom. Dan began to rock again.

Phil had closed all the blinds, set soothing music on as loud as possible, covered Dan in a blanket. But he could still here them. They were still there. Still banging at his ears. Still ringing the bells. Bang. Bang. Bang. Echo.

Bang. He was there again, actually there, he could feel the sand upon his face, the dull ache spreading through his legs, his arms panging from the intense movement, hunger. Boom. Panic. Sand kicked up, movements growing erratic, heavy footsteps, loud noise. Dan rolled into a bush at the side. Blood. Pain. Cries. Screams. Men lying. Not moving. Their bodies as still as the rocks that surrounded them, their final cries carved into their faces. Tears that would not come. Grief that would not arrive. Just shock. Only shock. And Panic. But the tears came now, they rolled down Dan's face, hitting the sofa, hitting the floor, hitting his knees which were curled around his body, hitting anywhere they could find, like rain desperately trying to find the ground. And pain, severe pain, spreading, but no screaming and no crying, the shots ringing in his ears, echoing, around and around again. Shaking. But not daring to cry. They might see him. They might hear him. He wanted to go home.

An arm around him. There was an arm around him, snaked around his shoulder, pulling him into a shoulder, into a chest. He wanted to fight. Where was he? Where was he? Sand. No. Rocks. No. He couldn't see it. Where was it? Where was he? Darkened room. Shut blinds. He turned his head slowly to the right. It was Phil, his eyes big and scared and moist. It was the face. The face from the photograph, the one from the pocket. His one love. He was home. He had to remind himself of that. Phil pulled Dan closer to him, Dan let his fingers run through his hair. Soft and silky, just like he tried to remember. But memory, memory was nothing, memory was a photograph, and a photograph was nothing, not when Phil was right there, not when Phil's lips were upon his cheek, not when his hands were in his hair, not when he was crying and his tears could reach Phil's jumper, not ever. Shaking. Rocking. Soothing. Bang. Clang. Boom. Sand. Rock. Gunshot. Room. Blinds. Carpet. Screams. Dan's muscles clenched. He was ready to fight, he was. But there was no danger. It was just Phil. There were no men with guns, no grenades, no khaki and no helmets. He wasn't there. He wasn't there. HE WASN'T THERE. But it felt like he was. He clutched onto Phil harder.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Seen as it's bonfire night soon (well I went to mine tonight but I think it's officially wednesday?) I decided to write this, I hope I did okay because I have never suffered ptsd so I could only do my best. Thank you for reading. <strong>_


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